Story

Couldn't I be your Holly Golightly?
You've finished my story, so where is
my Hollywood ending?

I'll end up with the original version.

A watered-down Manhattan on the bedside table.
I now sleep next to dog-eared
books of poetry instead of you.




A Sikh cabdriver once recited poetry
and gave me a silver bracelet,
a dollar store version of the one
permanent on his own wrist.
He told me kindness always come back around
and, I actually believed him then as I told you
the story (breathless and shivering)
over the phone.